


Keep climbing the (green) montain

by Builder



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Law, Avocados in College, Caffeine Addiction, Friendship, Gen, Non 24, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Sleep disorders, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Matt uses his sleep disorder to his advantage.  Until he can't.





	Keep climbing the (green) montain

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Daredevil. Find me on Tumblr @builder051

When Matt first came home from the hospital, he was confused.  It was expected that he’d need time to adjust.  He was just a kid, after all.  But when he woke his dad up at 2:30 in the morning the third day in a row, Jack had put his foot down.

“Getting up to pee is one thing,” he’d said, showing Matt the brand new alarm clock with a hand-over-hand motion.  “But you have to sleep at night, ok?  I can’t have you going all nocturnal on me.”  He’d laughed.

Matt had cracked a smile.  He’d wanted to explain that it wasn’t that simple; he couldn’t just force his body to sleep on command.  But instead he’d just nodded.  He learned to go to bed at 9:30 on school nights, midnight on fight nights, and stay under the covers until the alarm clock went off at 7.

That didn’t mean Matt, slept, though.  He spent most of his time learning.  Observing.  Noting how traffic noise evolved across the hours of the night and faded into the morning.  How the feel of the air changed when the bars let out.  The way scents drifted in differently after the doves on the windowsill settled down.

By the time Matt entered college, he didn’t need an alarm clock to tell him the difference between night and day.  It took a little getting used to the sounds and smells of the dormitory, but Matt knew it was the right time to get out of bed when the coffee started brewing in the dining hall downstairs.  It didn’t matter if he’d slept or not; a steaming cup of stimulant was all he needed to reset his internal clock to daytime.

The non-24 was the bane of Matt’s existence.  He’d readily admit it to anyone who asked, though only two doctors and one roommate ever had.  But that didn’t mean the condition didn’t have advantages.  Pulling an all-nighter was a lot easier when Mat could just take an hour-long nap and down a cup of coffee and convince himself 7pm was 7am.  He’d spend 11 hours studying, rinse, repeat, and live the day all over again when the real 7am rolled around.

If he did it too many times in a row, though, things got sticky, and the day Foggy found him sweating bullets at a table in the library, his secret had come out.

“Ok.  Intervention,” Foggy had said, throwing himself into the chair across from Matt’s and bring a gust of stale tuna melt and body odor through the ubiquitous haze of Arabica.  “You cannot study all night.  Again.”

“Whoa.”  Matt had forced a laugh.  “It’s, what, 8:15?  Who says I’m studying all night?”

He could hear Foggy’s watchband roll over the table.  “It’s 8:19.”

“Yeah, big difference.  I’ll come back to the room in a little bit.”  Matt had turned the page of his notes and reached for his Starbucks cup, but Foggy had other ideas.  He slid both across the table and made a sound Matt could only imagine was accompanied by an exasperated face.

“You haven’t slept in our room in three days,” Foggy said.

“Where I sleep is none of your business.”  Matt hadn’t meant for it to come out so clipped.  But something about the way his heart was hammering made his words trip over themselves in a rush.

“Well, unless your girlfriend’s name is…”  There was a rustling as Foggy looked at the cover of Matt’s notebook, “Criminal Law 330, I’m pretty sure you don’t have one.”

Mat found that way funnier than it was supposed to be, and he cackled until tears of mirth and pure caffeine dripped from behind is glasses.

“Ok.  Yeah.  Something’s wrong with you.  Have you even slept at all in the past three days?”

“Of course I have,” Matt had giggled.  “Why would I not?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.  ‘Cause I definitely think I’m right on this one.”

“Leave me alone, Fog,” Matt had said, trying his best to sober up.  “I gotta study.”  He’d reached for his notes, and more importantly, his coffee cup, but Foggy held both at bay.

“Seriously, Matt.  Have you seen yourself?”

“Yes, Foggy.”  The sarcasm was heavy.  “And I look great.”

“Aw, geez, Matt, that’s not what I meant.”  There was the sound of the heel of Foggy’s hand scrubbing over stubble.  “You look sick.  You’re acting…high.”

It wasn’t far off.  Matt’s spine tingled, his head spun.  A sick burp surfaced in his throat and made everything in a hundred-yard radius smell like coffee bile.

“Come on.  What’s wrong?”

And the whole story had come out.  Matt hadn’t meant for it to be a melodramatic  _oh, look at the poor blind kid_  tale from his childhood, but it had probably worked in his favor that it had.  He’d ended up missing two final exams while he slept it off (for real), and Foggy had probably factored it into his excuse.  And the fact that Matt had puked all over the stairs up to their dorm hadn’t hurt.

***

Matt stands at the kitchen counter pouring freshly brewed Folger’s into a thermos.  He knows he has to be careful.  He’s pushing 46 to two in his waking-to-sleeping hours ratio, and the scent of his sweat has a distinctly dark roast note.  Matt doesn’t think it’s at the point where anyone else will notice, but he doesn’t want to push it.  Every once in a while, Foggy surprises the hell out of him and puts two and two together.  Of course, fate would give him that on a day that Matt’s feeling dull.

He’ll sleep tonight, Matt promises himself.  Hell’s Kitchen can hold itself together without him.  He’s only been out fighting crime by night for a few weeks, and New York’s been ticking along for a few hundred years.  The logic doesn’t make sense, but along with the shakes, Matt’s also feeling…/emotional/, he decides. And he decides he doesn’t like it.  

Matt takes a deep breath and pretends his hands aren’t trembling as he grabs his briefcase and heads out the door.  He’s gotten so used to the constant caffeinated vibration of the world that he’d probably fall over if he sobered up.

The toe of Matt’s shoe catches on a crack in the sidewalk in front of his building.  The one he knows is right there because he can hear the way the vibrations of his footsteps change when he comes up on it.  And because he’s made the same stumble a dozen-odd times since he moved in.  Always on days when he’s badly in need of a nap and a trip to a dry sauna.  He needs to be more careful.  

Matt unfolds his cane, hating the way the plastic sticks to his sweaty palm.  But at least it gives him something to do.  And something for people to gawk at other than the fact that he probably looks strung out.

Matt’s the first one to arrive at the office.  He drains his thermos before he steps through the doorway, and he hides it under his desk as soon as he sits down.  No need for Foggy to see it and start asking questions.  Because that would distract from their caseload.  Not because Matt’s paranoid.

He spends ten minutes arranging files on the edge of his desk and debating whether to smoke out his sinuses with a breath mint when the doorknob rattles and the overhead lights sizzle on.  Friendly banter catches Matt’s ear, as well as the telltale drumbeat of hands on a waxy cardboard box.  Foggy and Karen are here.  And they’ve brought doughnuts.

“Hey!”  Foggy calls through the office space.

“’Morning,” Matt replies, pretending to be engrossed in a piece of paper he’s pulled at random.  He hopes Foggy doesn’t notice the braille is upside-down.

“I wish you’d turn on the lights when you come in,” Karen complains good-naturedly.  “I thought maybe someone had broken in…”  She opens the doughnut box on Matt’s desk, overwhelming him in a cloud of sugar and grease.

“Eh, he always does that.  You’ll get used to it.”  Foggy takes a pastry, a jelly-filled one, Matt thinks, and bites into it.  “Breakfast, Matt?”

Matt takes a short breath through his mouth, and he feels like he’s already eaten half the box.  The sweet, crusty taste sits heavily on his tongue.  “No, thanks.”  He tries not to gag.

“Eh, more for us,” Karen says with too-casual nonchalance.  Matt knows she’s a closet sweet-tooth.  “Coffee, though?”  She clangs around with the carafe for a second, and the welcoming and equally nauseating scent starts to permeate the suite.

“You do know the way to my heart after all.”  Matt gives a syrupy grin.  He can practically feel the heat as Karen blushes.

A napkin flutters, and a maple glaze hits Matt’s desk with a hollow thunk.  “You can’t live on bean juice, Murdock,” Foggy says, his tone equally saccharine.  He laughs, but it’s definitely forced.   _Watch out, Matt_ , is what he means.   _I’m onto you._

Matt chuckles back.   _Watch me._

***

He stops at Starbucks on his way home.  Matt doesn’t mean to exactly, but halfway to his apartment, the top of his head starts to feel like it’s scraping the streetlights, and he knows he needs to take a breather or risk being the idiot who passes out on the evening commute.  Except he’s not going to pass out.  He’s just going to fall asleep.

Matt’s phone informs him it’s 20 minutes past five.  If he staggers home and flops over the arm of the couch like his body wants him to, he’ll be up and at ‘em at o’dark thirty and he’ll be right back where he started all those years ago.  His sleep schedule will be fucked.

_You say that like it’s not already fucked_ , Matt tells himself as he joins the line in the coffeehouse.   _Admit it.  You just want one_.

Matt pours cream and sugar into his Americano, and it dawns on him that these are the first actual calories he’s putting into his body today.  Oops.  Starving himself is an unfortunate side effect. He wonders if the cream counts as a protein.  Foggy would be laughing if he saw Matt right now.  Or maybe crying.   _“You don’t just forget to eat, Matt,”_  he’d said during the undergrad intervention.   _“Nobody actually does that.”_

Matt justifies his choice as he gulps it down.  What’s 12 more ounces?  Especially when he needs to stay up for four or five more hours.  Matt tries to think of something he wants to do when he gets home.  His first thought is to throw on the mask, but it’s his self-imposed night off.  And this time of year, it’s still light out.  Maybe he’ll listen to some TV.  Or meditate through his caffeine high.  That’s always fun.

He unlocks the apartment door and kicks off his shoes, then tosses his empty cup in the trash under the kitchen sink.  The scent of this morning’s slightly mildewy grinds drift up when he opens the cabinet.  Matt’s cheeks redden at how much it smells like his own body odor at this point.  He needs a shower.  But he’s wired again, and it seems a shame to waste this new burst of energy with calming self-care.

***

Matt decides to hit the gym, and by the time he’s home, he’s tired again.  He stands in front of the shower in his socks and underwear, just about wound down to his baseline energy level, when he hears it.  The sound of a fist jamming into someone’s ribcage, a shoulder hitting a dumpster with a deep ring.  All the air leaving a set of lungs.  Someone’s getting mugged in his backyard.

Matt reaches for his gym sweats that are still strewn over the toilet seat and yanks them on.  He grabs his clean pajama t-shirt off the counter and ties it over his eyes, then rushes into the bedroom, out the window, and off the balcony.

It takes Matt all of ten minutes to deal with the low-level crook, who he leaves leaned against the wall of the alley with a concussion and a broken tooth while the college kid he’d been robbing makes a break for it.  He’s probably as afraid of Matt as he is of his attacker.

Based on the crowded-but-not-crazy aura coming off the bar down the block, it’s 10:30.  Maybe eleven at the latest.  Plenty early for Matt to swing back up to the balcony and take a breath.  Take a shower.  Get some much-needed sleep.

But who’s he kidding?  He’s already out here.  He may as well stay the night.  There are a lot more alleyways and petty thieves to deal with.  Three days without sleep…he’s done it before.  Sure, it makes Matt a little tired, a little cranky, but it seems like a small price to pay.  After all, he’s got coffee.

***

The next morning, Folger’s doesn’t begin to cut it.  Matt’s Americano has three extra shots and six packets of sugar, and each sip feels like it’s going to come rocketing back up.  He’s taking tonight off.  For sure.  He just has to make it through the day first.

When he gets to the office, Matt grabs a file off the corner of his desk and starts reading.  He mentally says each word in time with the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat until his reading voice turns to a blur of nonexistent sound.  He’s barely taking in a word of it.  But going through the motions is comforting.  Nostalgic.  Until Matt drains his coffee and burps into his fist and everything goes to shit.

Warm liquid splashes over his hand before he’s quite sure what’s happening.  The sound of it hitting his manila folder is a wake up call, though, and Matt can’t skedaddle into the bathroom fast enough.  He doesn’t have time to slam the door behind him, so in between heaves he mutters a half-hearted prayer that Foggy and Karen are both running late.

Matt’s still gagging when the doorknob starts to rattle.  He thinks for a second about jetting back to his desk, but he has vertigo now.  He’s crashing hard.  The next retch sends caffeinated bile shooting out of his nose as well as his mouth.  It stuns his sinuses and makes him feel like he’s swimming in his own vomit.

Matt’s too distracted to process the fact that Foggy’s coming up behind him.  “Ok.  What did you do?”  Foggy squats beside Matt and pokes him in the shoulder with one finger.  “Did you do it again?”

“Huh?”  Matt grunts, trying and failing to peel his cheek off the toilet seat and pretend to look in Foggy’s direction.

“Yeah.  No number of years is enough to make me forget that smell.”  The toilet paper roll clatters, and Foggy shoves a wad of tissue into Matt’s hand.  “You did the thing again, didn’t you?”

Matt groans.  “What thing?”  He’s not dumb, but it seems easier to play that way.

“The thing.  Where you don’t sleep, and then…yeah.”

Matt coughs, and Foggy pats him on the back.  “Why am I even asking?  Of course you did.”

“Oh my god.  What happened?  Are you ok?”  Karen’s arrived.  Matt’s sure he would’ve blushed if he had any color whatsoever.

Foggy shoots to his feet and starts to shut the door with a creak.  “Matt’s got, um, the flu, so I’m gonna get him home here in a minute…”

Matt shakes his head, thick ribbons of saliva swinging from his lips.  He’s stupid for getting himself into this situation.  Foggy’s just as stupid for lying for him.

“What are you laughing at?”  Foggy demands when he kneels down beside Matt again.

Matt quickly controls his facial expression.  The continued urge to throw up helps him look sober.  Or, well, close to it.  “Aren’t we a pair,” he mutters.

Foggy lets out a sigh.  “I guess we are.”


End file.
